


buried heads

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Facials, M/M, Pining, Unrequited, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4209246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>angsty post-tour sex set post-wwa</p>
            </blockquote>





	buried heads

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr, oct 2014 
> 
> come say hellooo [here](http://www.ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com) !

“Look who’s finally back,” Nick says, when Harry shows up at his door at 11:30 PM on a Saturday night when Nick has people over. The flat is crowded, and Harry is overdressed and way-past-fashionably late, but Nick welcomes him in anyway. He always will. He can’t imagine turning Harry away from his door. 

Harry kisses his cheek, patting his back with one hand. “Yeah, good to see you too, Grim.” 

He sounds relaxed. More relaxed than he’s been in months. 

“Harry!” Pixie screeches from the sofa, nearly knocking over a half-empty bottle of wine. “Babe!" 

"Hiiiii,” Harry says, waving with both hands and smiling in that way he has where he knows everyone is watching. It’s Nick’s friends, so they’re probably better than most, but Nick knows Harry’s still magnetic. 

Harry bends down over Pixie, gives her a soft kiss on the side of her mouth, then ruffles George’s hair. 

“Taking good care of her?” he says to George, like an over-protective father instead of a twenty year old popstar with no chest hair. Harry’s always been that way, weird and overconfident and not afraid to be lame.

“Trying,” George says, and Pixie giggles, drunk, squeezing Harry’s hand. Nick watches until Aimee grinds her toe into his foot and breathes into his ear, “Let’s get another drink." 

The kitchen’s empty. Nick pours himself another vodka-lemon, takes out the Pinot Grigio for Aimee. 

"So,” she says, flatly. “Did you know he was coming?" 

"No!” Nick says, not even sure why he feels defensive. “I mean, I knew he was in London, and I told him he was welcome to stop by…" 

She rolls her eyes, knocks her glass against his. “You never fucking change, do you.” 

"He’s our  _mate_ , Aims-“ 

"Oh, I know,” she says, gulping her wine. “Make him breakfast in the morning, will you?" 

"He could be seeing someone,” Nick whispers, suddenly realizing they’re speaking at quite a loud volume. “I don’t bloody know. I’m not expecting anything." 

She shakes her head and refills her wine glass. “Good luck, babe.” 

Nick’s left alone, in the kitchen, sipping his vodka and feeling a bit wrong-footed. The door swings open and Harry slouches inside. He really does look quite fantastic. He’s got dark jeans on, skin-tight, and a black button down with an ornate collar that would look ridiculous on Nick (he’d wear it anyway, but it would) but manages to look completely natural on Harry. It’s unbuttoned a quarter of the way down his chest, his tattoos peeking out, his skin tan and glowing. His hair is clean and lush, nearly to his shoulders. 

Nick coughs, and finishes his drink. 

"Good to see you,” Harry says, already grabbing himself his favorite mug from Nick’s cupboard, glugging vodka into it. “You been good?" 

"Been good, me." 

"Good." 

"How about you? Got that post-tour depression? Miss the screaming girls?" 

Harry shrugs, filling the rest of his mug with some kind of peach-berry juice Daisy’s brought from the co-op near her flat. He takes a gulp, winces, stirs it with his finger, licks the rest off his hand.  _Christ_. Nick has moved rapidly from fun-loving drunk to good-god-I-need-to-get-fucked drunk. 

"I’m alright,” Harry says. 

“How long’re you back?" 

"Ermmm,” Harry says pensively around a mouthful of vodka-juice. He swallows. “Dunno exactly. Not long." 

Nick nods. “Always leaving us, aren’t you, popstar?” 

Harry just stares at him. 

"Sorry I missed your birthday,” he says, and buries his face in his mug. 

Nick gapes at him for a moment.

“S’alright,” he says, blankly. “I mean. I understand. You were being  _slightly_  important in America, I hear.”

Harry nods, and quick as anything, he’s out of the kitchen. 

Nick refills his cup with a shaking hand, and follows him. 

It’s a Saturday and everyone’s already been out the night before, already gone through the wringer, so everyone’s drinking slow and sitting around and chatting instead of dancing. Harry takes a spot on the floor at Daisy’s feet, tipping his shaggy head back against her knee and laughing when she puts her hands in his hair. 

Nick squeezes himself into a chair next to Ian, which would normally lead to him getting shoved bodily onto the carpet, but Ian must be taking pity on him, because he just moves over, absently elbows Nick in the side, and keeps listening to whatever Aimee’s saying. 

Nick usually holds court, on these nights, but he lost the thread of conversation when he went for a refill, and he’s content to just sit back and let it happen for once. Not that he’s  _silent._ He argues briefly with Pix about some designer she thinks is going to take off in the States (Nick knows he’s a dud) and then listens in on Aimee and Ian’s conversation about gentrification in Brooklyn -  _why_ , honestly, why does she bring stuff like that up when they’re all drunk and also across the bloody ocean from bloody New York.

He watches Harry the whole time. Oh, not obviously, of course. He’s gotten good at it by now, the way to subtly drag his eyes across the room, the way to laugh uproariously at someone’s joke while watching the way Harry’s throat bobs as he swallows. It’s one of those skills Nick picks back up whenever Harry’s back in town, like riding a bicycle. 

Harry catches his eye more than once, gives him a soft smile or scrunches his nose up in acknowledgement, and Nick just pulls a face right back. 

People clear out around two. Nick’s on the sofa, now, Harry still on the floor- bloody teenager with his flexible legs and his youthful stamina - and when the room’s half empty Nick reaches out, kicks at Harry’s arm, waits until Harry turns to him with his eyes bright. 

"You’ve got to tell me more about this vomiting in the street,” he says, trying his best not to slur. “Lily was very apologetic." 

Harry looks up at him, blinks slowly a few times. Maybe he’s quite pissed as well. Nick hasn’t been keeping track. 

"Yeah,” he says, and quick as a flash, his hand curls around Nick’s bare ankle and squeezes hard. 

He lets go and turns back to Pixie, and Nick exhales hard, just as Aimee pulls his head back from behind, leaning over the couch to kiss his cheeks. 

“Night,” she says. “Be good." 

"I’ll be hungover til Monday,” Nick says, groaning. “Ian’ll bring me a bacon butty, won’t he, litle Ian?" 

Ian just flicks him in the forehead, and Nick yelps, rubs the spot, waves them out. 

Pixie and George stumble out, and then Emily, who’s been sleeping in Nick’s bed for the past three days, so it’s especially kind of her to leave without making a fuss. 

And then, well. It’s empty. Harry’s on his back on the carpet, now, one leg kicked up, scrolling lazily through his phone. Nick’s on the sofa. 

Emily texts him, and Nick looks at it just as Harry says, “Fuck, I missed your flat.” 

Nick swipes it open hastily. J _ust have fu n babe. U deserve it xxx_

"Did you?” Nick says, absently, tapping back  _Youre a bloody angelxx_

Harry inhales deeply. When Nick looks, his eyes are closed. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Feels like London. You know?" 

God, Nick missed him. 

He coughs to hide the sudden well of feeling in his chest. 

"It should,” he says. “You’ve passed out on that carpet enough times." 

Harry huffs out a laugh, and rolls his head to the side til he’s looking up at Nick, wide-eyed. 

"Nick,” he says, out loud, and then a lot more with his eyes.

Nick stares at him, then rubs a hand over his face, lets out a long strangled sigh. 

“Come up here,” he says, and Harry-  _fucking_  Harry, can’t do anything by halves, because he crawls up from the carpet slow and sinful, puts his hands on Nick’s thighs, arches up til he’s inches from Nick’s mouth. 

Nick can’t think of a single thing to say. Everyone knows about them, and how they can’t keep apart, and how Harry leaves, and how Nick sulks. The never-ending story. Nick likes to prove people wrong, but not as much he likes to get laid. 

So he doesn’t speak. He just leans forward, kisses Harry, and Harry kisses back. 

Kissing Harry always feels familiar. Like a well-worn jumper, or the first sip of a fresh cup of tea, or another flowery metaphor Nick cant find the brainpower to think of when Harry’s carefully cupping Nick’s jaw with one hand and sucking on his tongue. Nick groans against the sweep of Harry’s broad tongue in his mouth and Harry smirks. Nick can’t see it but he  _knows_. 

He ends up pressed against the back of the couch, Harry straddling his lap, a long line of muscle and skin. 

Harry pulls back, starts to undo his shirt. 

“I thought about this,” he says, low, fingers fumbling over the buttons. His eyes are on Nick’s, and Nick feels hot and shivery all over. Maybe someday Nick won’t be this easy. He can’t but hope. “In this hotel room, in Chicago, and I was - I was having a wank and I got myself off thinking about that time you let me fuck you three times in one night." 

Nick’s eyes close of their own accord. He arches his neck, lets Harry lean down to suck luxuriously at his pulse point. 

"Do you remember that?” Harry breathes, against Nick’s ear. 

“How the fuck could I forget,” Nick says, and it’s supposed to sound sarcastic, but it comes out ragged and sincere. 

Harry lets out a happy breath, kisses Nick’s jaw softly like a reward for remembering. 

“That,” he says. “Was the best sex I’ve ever had." 

Nick wants to say  _don’t fucking lie_ , but for a second he just lets himself believe it. Harry Styles, international mega-popstar, with his famed dick and mouth and overflowing black book of shags, saying _Nick’s_  the best he’s ever had. 

It was quite good. Quite, quite good. A night that started half-drunk and fierce and messy and ended sober and slow and sensitive, Nick whimpering when Harry slid into him that last time, his dick thick and satisfying and teasing at Nick’s nerves, his warm chest spooned up against Nick’s back and his hand rubbing Nick’s thigh- 

Fucking hell. 

"Plan on repeating that?” Nick says, tipping his face up to be kissed. Harry doesn’t take the invitation, just toys with Nick’s hair, kisses down the line of his cheek, mouthing over his face. 

“Let’s start with one,” he says, voice gravelly, and Nick groans. 

“You’re a fucking tease,” he says, helplessly. 

“I’m not a tease,” Harry says, lifting his head from Nick’s face, grinning at him with his eyes gleaming and cheeks flushed. “I fully plan to fuck you, how’s that me being a tease-" 

"Shut  _up_ ,” Nick groans, and kisses him to make sure Harry obeys.

—

They end up on Nick’s bed, naked, hard, kissing. It’s been exactly two months and a week since Nick was last fucked, which is a) depressing, and b) definitely not something he’s going to tell Harry. Harry probably had a shag hours ago. That’s probably where he was before he got to Nick’s. Harry collects stray fuckbuddies like other people collect coins. 

Nick’s the shiniest coin, though. The best Harry’s ever  _had_. He really shouldn’t care, and yet, here he fucking is, already spreading his legs so Harry can grind between them. Their dicks press against each other, the hot shock of it making them both moan, and Nick says, frantically, “Lube. Lube. Get the lube.” 

"Yeah,” Harry says, keeping a hand on Nick’s belly as he reaches over and fumbles around in Nick’s nightstand. He pulls out a vibrator Nick bought last month on an impromptu and admittedly-tipsy sex shop trip with Daisy, raises an eyebrow. 

“This for you?" 

Nick’s used it all of twice, and only by himself, but Harry doesn’t need to know that. 

"Feels incredible,” he says, which isn’t a lie. Harry’s brows knit together, his eyes darkening, and he says, low, “I want to use it on you." 

"Later,” Nick says, flushing a split-second after the words come out of his mouth. Laters used to be guaranteed with Harry - laters, and second rounds, and third rounds, and breakfast. Harry used to stick around. 

The last two times they’ve fucked Harry’s been gone in the morning. He always leaves a note - a Post-it on Nick’s phone - the first thing he looks at in the morning, of course - in scratchy pen, something like: _Morning sorry had to run… Had fun last night. Have a good day. x H_

Something sweet and impersonal. Something that Nick reads over and over until it goes blurry and then he puts it aside and pulls himself out of bed and starts his day. 

Harry twists the base and the vibrator buzzes in his hand. His eyebrows jump, pleased, and he grins. “Later?” 

“ _Later_ ,” Nick says, huffing out a laugh, pulling Harry’s wrist with the vibrator down. He can feel it humming. “Want your dick right now.” 

Harry looks up from the vibrator like a puppy whose name’s just been called. 

“C’mere,” Nick says, fondly, long-sufferingly. “Put that down and c’mere." 

Harry puts it back into the drawer, grabs the lube and a condom and collapses back into Nick’s arms, kissing him. 

He keeps Nick right there, on his back, as he fingers him open. Nick spreads his legs and loses himself to it, a little, the slow slick in-out of three of Harry’s long fingers, the way Harry is breathing, slow and focused, the gut-clench of pleasure Nick feels when Harry rubs the pads of his fingertips at that spot inside him. 

"Good, I’m good,” Nick says, breathlessly, shivering, feeling empty when Harry draws his fingers out to get more slick. “C’mon." 

"Say please,” Harry says, half-joking, gently running his wide palm up Nick’s leg and then hitching it up onto his arm. His biceps flex, and he looks very tan next to Nick’s pale calf. 

“Harry." 

"Say,” Harry says, rolling the condom down over his fat hard dick, looking already stupid with it, hungry and single-minded. “Please." 

"Fuck you,” Nick says, strained, and his breath shudders out of him as Harry pushes inside in one long slow slide. “ _Please_.” 

"There it is,” Harry mutters distractedly, pushing Nick’s thigh back so it twinges, his dick sat deep and heavy inside Nick. “Shit, you feel so fucking good." 

"Move,” Nick mumbles, and, before Harry can ask - “Please." 

"Do it on your back coz- coz I know you don’t like to do any of the bloody work,” Harry gasps, grinning wildly with his eyes very wide and bright. “Do you, Grim?" 

"Fuck me,” Nick groans, and thankfully, Harry stops talking and fucks him. 

It’s so good when they get it right, when they sync up just right and Harry rolls his hips with an extra jolt of purpose, breathing hard, dragging the head of his dick slowly against Nick’s prostate with each deep thrust. Then it feels  _perfect_ , like Nick’s fucking -  _face_  is melting off. That doesn’t sound sexy in his head, but it feels sexy. He can’t stop groaning, making these raw hurt sounds that sound like someone else, something else. 

The first time they did this, Harry was eighteen and clumsy, dropped the condom four times before he got it on, was too squeamish to pop his finger past Nick’s rim, work it inside him. It was still good though. Still great. And Harry learned fast. 

“Faster,” Nick says, back arching, because he can feel it coming but he needs more. Harry pulls out and shoves back in, thrusts short and choppy, and- 

“Oh- god - yes-” Nick chokes, his dick pulsing in his hand as he wanks off. His face is melting off again. It’s so good, it’s so fucking- “Oh- god, Christ, Harry, yes, just- like that-" 

Harry groans eagerly, his hips working fast, rutting as he chases his own orgasm. 

At the last second Nick knows they’re going to come at nearly the same time, and for some reason his first reaction is embarrassment, like he’s giving too much away. 

Harry’s whining now, driving into him, his eyes shut, and Nick skims his thumb under the head of his dick, presses against his own slit and arches when he comes, the sliver of pain pushing him over the edge. 

"God yes,” Harry gasps, from somewhere in the haze above Nick’s sex-melted face, all the world gone blurry as he comes and comes. “God-” and that’s the shuddering thrust, the low moan, the heat inside the condom inside Nick. That’s it, both of them stumbling over the finish line, hand in fucking hand. Nick shuts his eyes.  

Harry’s slumped on him as he softens, until he comes to himself, lifts his head, blinking heavily. There’s the burn of sex on his cheeks, pink and flushed, and his hair is all sweaty and flopped over one side of his head. 

Nick reaches out and tucks Harry’s hair behind his ear, drags his thumb softly down to the lush bow of Harry’s well-kissed mouth, and Harry kisses his finger, looks at Nick, eyes and mouth twitching up into a smile. 

“That’s the first round sorted,” he says, and Nick makes an indignant sound, flops his head back onto the bed. 

“Little shit." 

Harry cleans up - pulls out very carefully, dabs come off Nick’s belly with a wet flannel, rubs it between Nick’s legs. Harry does all the little things right, which is what makes him hard to resist. The foreplay, and the sex, and the clean-up, and the sweetness, and the kissing, and the way he looks at Nick, sometimes, like Nick hung the moon. 

He’s just so bad at staying in Nick’s life. He’s so bloody bad at it. 

Not tonight though. Tonight he’s crawling into bed next to Nick and flicking the lamp off and sighing deeply and Nick isn’t going to think about the rest of it. He’s only going to think about this. 

—

He wakes up to an empty bed and a sore arse, and he lies there for a long minute stewing in self-pity before he hears a noise from the kitchen, like a mug clinking against tile. 

There’s a note on his phone, and he picks it up gingerly, sitting up as slow as he possibly can so the toxic booze soup in his brain doesn’t start bubbling. 

_Hiii_ it starts, in Harry’s familiar handwriting, and then -  _Making bacon. come out when you’re up. good morning. xx H_

Nick stares at it, and then tosses it aside, and rolls out of bed. He’ll take it as long as it comes - three rounds or three days or three months. He’ll take it. That’s the part Nick’s bad at. Saying no. 

\---

A full twelve hours later and Harry’s still in Nick’s flat, playing music on Nick’s stereo and stretching out over his sofa and making a complete mess of his kitchen. Nick hasn’t gone outside in a full day except to take Pig around the block, and he feels pretty bloody alright with that fact.

They’re in bed by eight PM, early even for a Sunday, both of them with cups of tea, in just their pants, the new Banks album filtering quietly from Nick’s open laptop, and it’s - nice. Weird. If there’s anyone in Nick’s bed at eight PM on a Sunday, they’re usually either a woman or a canine. Nick forgot, a bit, what it was like to share space with Harry. 

“We get it, we get it, London’s not cool enough for you anymore,” Nick says loudly, interrupting Harry in the middle of one of his endless stories about LA and the people and the hiking and the bloody green smoothies. 

“It’s not like - that,” Harry says, too-serious as always. “I just like it. Like. I can just walk around and do stuff and people treat me normally." 

Nick bites his tongue to keep from saying  _no, they treat you like a millionaire popstar, they just don’t scream at you_. "Normally” is a stretch. 

“Well, can’t beat that,” he says, trying not to sound sour. 

“And it’s so warm, all the time,” Harry says, tugging Nick’s duvet up to his neck. “It’s never damp, you know how London’s so damp?" 

Nick stares up at the ceiling. 

"Yeah." 

"It’s just, like, sunny.” Harry hums, and his cold toes press against Nick’s leg. “And warm. Even on Christmas. God, Nick, you’ve got to come over the winter hols. It’s so nice. You haven’t even seen the house yet." 

"Maybe I will,” Nick says faintly. 

There’s a pause. 

“You, like, eggy with me, is that what I’m supposed to suss out from you being all quiet?” Harry says, looking over at Nick.  

Nick shakes his head, says roughly, “No." 

"What’s up, then,” Harry says, rolling onto his stomach, peering at Nick. 

“Nothing, Harold,” Nick says, rolling his eyes. “I’m just tired." 

"When you’re tired you talk  _more_." 

Nick laughs. "I’m not that tired. Just the right amount." 

"Alright, Goldilocks,” Harry says, which doesn’t make sense one bit. He kisses Nick’s shoulder, and then flops his head down into the mattress, hair brushing Nick’s arm. 

“Do you miss me when I’m away?” he asks, a bit muffled from the duvet next to his mouth. 

Nick laughs again. “Your ego could fill a fucking house, Harry." 

"Do you?” Harry sounds suddenly quavery. 

Nick licks his lips, and then closes his eyes. 

“You know I do,” he says, quietly. 

Harry doesn’t move. Nick wishes he hadn’t said that.

“Gem says she just pretends I’m at uni in America,” Harry says softly. “And that it helps." 

"Thank you so much for the coping technique,” Nick says, dryly. “Used by your bleedin’  _sister_. What does she do when she misses your dick?" 

Harry laughs, props himself up on his elbows. 

"Oh, so you miss my dick?” he says, eyes gleaming. 

“An entire fucking house, Harold-”

“It misses you too, Nicholas,” Harry says, giving a thrust against the sheets and grinning. “It really pines for you." 

"I think it’s having the goddamn time of its life,” Nick says, and Harry pouts at him. 

“Why do you think I’m such a slag?" 

"Years of proof, maybe?" 

Harry shrugs - because when it comes down to it, he is, he really is,  _such_  a slag. The papers get it wrong because they think he’s cruel about it, they think he breaks people’s hearts. That’s not true. He shags people who want a shag and they both have a fucking great time doing it. 

Nick’s own heart is - fine. Irrelevant. 

"It still misses you,” Harry says, shuffling up til he’s face to face with Nick, looking amused.

“Harry." 

Harry laughs a little, kisses him. 

"You miss it right now?” he says, rolling his hips against Nick’s side. “You wanna give it a hug?" 

"Ew, my  _god_ , you sound like a porno, and not a good one,” Nick says, shoving him off. 

“A bum hug?” Harry says, huffing with laughter, eyes crinkled. “A nice tight embrace?”

“I hate you,” Nick says, putting a hand in Harry’s hair, pulling until Harry’s eyes stop crinkling and go liquid dark. “I really do." 

"You love me,” Harry proclaims, tugging gently against Nick’s grip in his hair. “I’m gonna suck you off." 

"I do love people who suck me off,” Nick says, and Harry butts his head into Nick’s chest, and wriggles down his body. 

He spends a long time down there, kissing everywhere, biting at Nick’s hips, ignoring his dick as it hardens.

“You should get a tattoo here,” he mumbles at one point, lifting his head from where he’s sinking his teeth into the soft part of Nick’s hip. 

“We’re not all flat-stomached popstars,” Nick says, swallowing, throat dry. “So I heard you were gonna suck me off…" 

Harry bites down and Nick yelps. 

"Be patient,” Harry says, kissing the bite softly, laving his tongue against it. “I’m serious. A little one. Like a rose or summat." 

"A rose,” Nick says, snorting. “Why the hell would I ever get a rose?" 

"Or like a heart." 

"Or like an elaborate fern!” Nick says, sarcastically. “To celebrate Fearne Cotton! Wait, Harold, is that the inside scoop? You got those leaves done because of your top-secret torrid affair with Fearne Cotton?" 

Harry snorts against Nick’s stomach, his breath hot. 

"You’re the only Radio One DJ I’m currently shagging,” he says. “Thank god. Don’t know if I could handle two of you chatty bastards." 

"That’s  _so_  mean on Greg,” Nick says in a whiny voice. “Wow, Styles.”

Harry laughs with his mouth open and accidentally drools on Nick’s belly. 

“Eurgh,” Nick says. “Don’t spit on me." 

Harry wipes it away with his thumb, and then uses that same thumb to rub the head of Nick’s dick, slip under his foreskin. His hand comes to curl around the shaft. His fingers are warm. 

Nick lies his head back, lets out a shaky sigh as Harry slides his hand slowly down to the base. Down to business, then. 

"Nick,” Harry says slowly, kissing at the inside of Nick’s thigh, head ducking. “How, like, sore are you?" 

"Don’t you dare try and put your dick inside me, Styles, I was promised a blowjob-" 

"What about that?” Harry says, and lifts his head, nods pointedly at the bedside table. 

Nick swallows hard. 

“ _That_  I could probably handle,” he says, bravely, and Harry grins.

—

“God- yes - fucking - god-” Nick’s gasping a half hour later, slurred and not caring if the neighbors complain about the noise to the police. Let them come. Let everyone fucking see what Harry’s doing to him. Nick couldn’t care less. “God! Fucking -  _hell_ , Harry, Harry, fuck-" 

Harry slurps at the head of his cock just as he twists the base of the vibrator to turn it up, and Nick nearly screams. His hands fist in the sheets, and he can’t hear the wet sounds of Harry’s mouth over his own loud, frantic breaths. 

"Harry,” he chokes out. “Harry, fuck, please, too much-" 

"You’re really close,” Harry gasps out, lifting breathlessly off Nick’s dick for a second. Nick moans unhappily, missing the velvet tight heat of Harry’s throat. “I can feel you. You’re so close, c'mon, love." 

He goes back down, and pushes the vibrator in just a fraction more, taps it with his thumb until it thrums _right_  against Nick’s prostate. Nick sobs, comes in long pulses, first into the wet heat of Harry’s mouth and then across his lips and face as Harry pulls off, gasping for air. 

"Oh, shit,” Harry chokes out, voice rough, wiping at his cheeks. He yanks out the vibrator with his free hand, and Nick clenches hard down on nothing, feeling the echoes of it inside him.

“Fuck,” Nick breathes, blinking dazedly. His legs are shaking. “That - was an accident." 

"An accident?” Harry says, already starting to grin again, looking up at Nick and, oh, god, that’s a fucking sight to be seen. There’s come on Harry’s face, smeared across his pink mouth, and he looks filthy and bright-eyed and bloody incredible. As Nick watches, Harry skims his fingers across his cheek, sucks them into his mouth. 

“You fucking,” Nick breathes, disbelieving. “You are so-" 

"So what?” Harry asks, licking his fingers. He makes a little face, curious, nose wrinkling. “No one’s ever come on my face before." 

Nick doesn’t quite know the words to say  _that’s mad, because you should have come on your perfect face at all times, except not actually because it’d get all dry and crusty, but the point is, your mouth, Styles, your filthy fucking mouth-_

He just breathes out hard, blinks up at the ceiling. 

"Glad there’s still something I could be your first at,” he says, and Harry’s head pops up in his line of vision, looking disgruntled and still messy. 

“Heyyy,” he says. Nick blows him a lazy kiss. 

“I’m gonna wash my face,” Harry says, running his hands down the insides of Nick’s thighs. “And then I’m gonna come fuck your mouth. Come all over you, see how you like it." 

"Oh I like it,” Nick murmurs, arching an eyebrow in a lazy challenge, and Harry licks his mouth and then rolls off the bed, stalks over to the en-suite, setting the vibrator down on the nightstand as he goes. He’s still wearing his briefs, his soft arse wobbling a bit as he walks, and Nick puts a hand over his face, struck by a sudden wave of exhaustion, all the adrenaline of the weekend toppling down at once.

Harry comes back five minutes later, and Nick blinks up at him blearily. Harry’s face is scrubbed clean, skin shiny and flushed, and he’s naked, now, half-hard as he stands next to the bed. His hair’s tied back in a bun.

“Grim?” he says. “You tired?" 

Nick is tired. He also knows that the weekends are magic, strange havens of free time, and that Harry is leaving soon, and that Nick won’t have anyone in his bed, soon enough. That he can’t let this slip by.

"C'mere, it’s alright,” he says, voice coming out thick. His stupid eyes won’t stay open. “I can suck you off." 

Harry sighs out a laugh. 

"Come heeere,” Nick says, but it breaks off into a yawn. 

Harry crawls into bed next to Nick, gently tugs the duvet out from  under Nick’s legs, pulls it back up over them both. 

“Go to sleep, old man." 

"I can get you off,” Nick mumbles, rolling over onto his side towards Harry, who’s sprawled out, unabashedly naked, on his back.

Harry’s scrolling through his phone, distractedly, and he looks up when Nick fumbles at his hip, twists around and presses a kiss against Nick’s mouth. He smells like Nick’s cleanser, and minty toothpaste. 

“Go to bed,” he whispers. 

“Sorry,” Nick says vaguely, too exhausted to remember what he’s sorry for exactly. Ah, right, an aborted blowjob. “Morning." 

"Morning,” Harry says softly, hand rubbing against Nick’s stomach. “Good night, Nicholas.”

—

They have a shag before sunrise, before Nick’s alarm, before either of them are properly awake. Nick’s on his side, Harry tucked up behind him, nuzzling the back of his neck and working his hips slowly, so slowly, until Nick’s all sparking-hot nerve endings and deep, steady sighs. He spreads himself for Harry, lifts his leg so Harry can get deep, and Harry does his part, fucks in until his hips are pressed to Nick’s arse and he’s groaning softly against Nick’s ear. 

“Fucking love this,” he breathes once, lips brushing beneath Nick’s ear, making him shiver and tighten up around Harry’s thick cock. “Could do this forever." 

Nick knows he’s got about twenty minutes until Gemma’s show starts blaring from his radio and he has to get up and go to work and pretend Harry Styles is just a person he reads about in Heat and calls occasionally. He knows that. 

It’s just, for a minute, he pretends. That this is his life, a warm intimate morning shag, a pair of lips on his neck and a hand around his waist. That this is what Nick wakes up, every morning, someone sleepy and tender next to him in bed, smelling of cologne and argan oil and the musky heady scent of  _boy_. 

_Someday_ , Nick thinks fiercely, squeezing his eyes shut.  _Someday, someday, someday_. 

—

He leaves Harry sprawled lazily in bed, but by the time Nick’s showered, scrubbed every bit of the weekend off his skin, Harry’s sitting up, looking awake, hair pulled back from his face. There are curls popping out of his ponytail, and he’s yawning down at his phone. 

"Stay if you like,” Nick says, turning his face away and fumbling for a pair of briefs in his dresser-drawer. “I mean, it’s disgustingly early." 

"It’s alright,” Harry murmurs. “I’ll call a car for, like, a bit after you leave." 

Nick doesn’t say anything. He gets dressed quickly, in the half-light of the lamp, while Harry sits there and texts people, or whatever he does. 

"Are you leaving town?” Nick says, stooping down to tie his trainer laces. 

“Mmm, got a flight booked for Wednesday back to LAX,” Harry says. “Might stay at Gem’s for a bit first." 

Nick knows, logically, that Harry is probably being vague because he doesn’t know his own plans, not because he’s trying to avoid seeing Nick again. Harry’s notoriously awful at nailing things down - not _nailing_ things, he’s quite good at  _that_  - and he spends more money than he should (but not more than he has, that’s nearly impossible these days) on last-minute, extravagant, first-class flights wherever he fucking feels like going. Nick’s never asked him, but he thinks that Harry’s utter lack of a schedule is some sort of rich-person rebellion against the constant demands of tour and promotion. 

Nick gets it. Doesn’t mean he likes it, but sure, he gets it. 

"Alright,” Nick says, as his phone buzzes in his jeans pocket. Probably the cab. “Well. I’ll speak to you soon." 

Harry unfolds himself from Nick’s sheets, pads over to him, kisses him once on the mouth and once on the cheek. 

"Have a good show,” he says, yawning. He’s naked, and Nick wants very badly to crawl back into bed with him. There are so many bits of Harry he forgot to reacquaint himself with, and now he’s got no clue when he’ll next get the chance. Harry’s arse, good  _god_ , and his thighs, Nick barely touched his thighs, and Harry’s new arm tattoo, and the sensitive part of his neck under his long hair. Nick forgot to kiss him there and it’d be weird to do it now. Shit. 

“See you,” he says. 

“Yeah.” Harry smiles sleepily at him. “Had a really good time this weekend." 

"Me too,” Nick says, and smiles back, because what else is there to say? This is how they work. This is how Harry works. Show up, fuck, leave, repeat. 

Nick hurries out of his flat. It’s still dark out, a sure sign winter’s approaching, and the cab is idling on the curb, white smoke puffing out against the weird grey sky. 

He slides into the backseat, mumbles a good morning, tips his face against the chill window and watches London slide by, empty and eerie in the dim pre-dawn light.

_Fall back asleep_ , he thinks, to Harry.  _just til I get home_.  _Just so I can wake you up_. 

Harry won’t. 

Nick swallows hard, shuts his eyes.


End file.
